Chapter 4 - The Ghost of Marseille
“Elena, what are they—?” Mark choked out, coughing through the drifting white smoke, his hands gripping my shoulders as he tried to shield me. “Who are these people? Are they after Vitali Holdings? Is this an assassination attempt?”
“Lower your voice,” I snapped, pressing my hand firmly over his mouth to quiet him. My eyes darted through the swirling haze, tracking the movement of the tactical operatives as they methodically secured every corner of the pavilion. “They aren't here for Vitali Holdings, Mark. They’re here for me.”
Mark’s amber eyes widened in sheer disbelief, staring at me through the dim, emergency-lit gloom of the sealed pavilion. “For you? El, what are you talking about? You’re a nurse! You ran a quiet life in Chicago before we met!”
“That’s what my file said,” I whispered bitterly, pulling a small, heavy tactical knife from the hidden sheath strapped inside the lining of my leather boot—a habit I had never truly broken, no matter how many quiet dinners we shared at upscale restaurants. “Everyone has a past, Mark. Mine just happens to have a very long memory.”
Across the pavilion, through the thinning fog of the concussion smoke, the lead operative stepped onto the raised DJ stage where Victoria was currently trembling in a heap against the massive speakers, sobbing hysterically as her expensive designer gown soaked in spilled champagne.
The operative pulled off his Kevlar helmet, revealing a scarred, angular face with cold, dead eyes and a jagged tribal tattoo curling around his neck.
Viktor Vance.
My breath hitched in my throat. My blood turned to ice water.
Viktor. The man I had left behind in a burning shipping container in Marseille three years ago, thinking he was dead. The man who had trained me, betrayed me, and hunted me across half of Europe before I slipped through his fingers and changed my name to Elena.
“Well, well, well,” Viktor’s gravelly voice boomed through the pavilion’s audio system, echoing off the steel shutters with chilling clarity. He casually kicked a shattered champagne glass aside with his combat boot. “I told my sources that the ghost of Marseille was hiding in plain sight. But I never imagined she’d downgrade from international intelligence to pouring coffee for billionaire real estate moguls in Chicago.”
The entire crowd of socialites shrank away from him in terror, whimpering and pressing themselves against the walls. Victoria covered her face with her hands, shaking uncontrollably, finally realizing that the terrifying monster in the room wasn't the scarred girl she had tried to humiliate—it was the monster she had unknowingly invited through the front door.
“Elena...” Mark breathed, his voice trembling as he looked at me with a mixture of shock, betrayal, and raw fear. “Who is that man? What does he want with you?”
“He wants the encryption key I took when I burned his network down,” I whispered, my fingers tightening around the hilt of my boot knife. I peeked over the edge of the concrete planter, calculating distances, angles, exits. “And he’s going to use every single one of these rich, terrified socialites as hostages to force me out of hiding.”
“I won't let him touch you,” Mark said instantly, his voice hardening with the fierce, unyielding protectiveness that made him a titan in the boardroom. He started to stand up.
I shoved him back down into the dirt behind the planter with surprising force.
“If you stand up right now, you die, Mark,” I hissed, my eyes locked on his with absolute, terrifying seriousness. “And if you die, I lose the only good thing I built after I walked out of the fire. Stay down. Let me handle my past.”
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Before Mark could argue, Viktor’s voice rang out across the pavilion again, dripping with cruel amusement.
“Come out, Elizabeth!” Viktor shouted, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming an old friend. “You can’t hide behind the rich kids forever! Let’s finish what we started in Marseille—one way or another!”
